


kahua o Mali'o

by Siria



Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-15
Updated: 2011-05-15
Packaged: 2017-10-19 10:09:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/199694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siria/pseuds/Siria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It takes three days for Steve's body to realise that it's all over.</p>
            </blockquote>





	kahua o Mali'o

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sheafrotherdon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheafrotherdon/gifts).



> Thanks to dogeared for betaing!

It takes three days for Steve's body to realise that it's all over—to realise that the adrenaline and the fury that have been propelling him forward for so long aren't needed any more; that for the first time in years, he has the possibility of stopping. When it does, though, it rebels—takes the opportunity to just shut down, goddamn revels in letting its guard down after all those years where he's relied on it. The betrayal is swift—Steve feels as if he lost his stroke mid-swim, suddenly tugged under the waves, ocean water rushing in to fill up his lungs. Each breath is a rasping wheeze, burning salt-sharp in his throat and making his ribs ache.

He tries to tough it out, gets out of bed through force of will and a couple of ibuprofen, swallowed dry. The governor's officially given Five-0 several days' leave, which Steve had been planning to ignore, but he feels so groggy he decides to stay home and work on some of the house renovations instead. His head is swimming too much to make working on the guttering wise, but there's painting to be done in the bathroom, light bulbs to be changed out, groceries to be bought. Steve makes himself some tea, sits on the couch and tells himself that as soon as he's finished the tea, he'll make a start on the chores—he wakes to the pattering of rain against the window, the low sound of a radio, the smell of something cooking in his kitchen.

Steve sits bolt upright, scrabbling under the cushion for his sidearm before he remembers that it's still sitting in the drawer by his bed, before his brain catches up with his nervous system and he realises that the person in the kitchen, singing along to the Top 40 in an off-key manner, is Danny. He sags back against the couch for a moment before he tries to heave himself up.

"Hey!" Danny comes into the living room, dressed in his version of casual clothing—snug-fitting jeans, a red t-shirt that strains to cover his shoulders. "Hey! Sit, down boy, stay. Come on, back on that couch." He snaps his fingers.

Steve stares. "The hell, Danny?"

"I'm glad you actually set up a code for your security system, by the way," Danny says. "Not so glad that you made it 5050, because what, you're going to try some reverse psychology stupid on the bad guys? That's not been proven to work so well, my friend." He stoops and picks up a blanket and a pillow from the floor; they're from Steve's bedroom, and Steve feels vaguely ashamed that Danny's apparently been up and down the stairs here at least once and Steve had been entirely unaware the whole time. "Here. Come on, this works better if you lift your head. Trust me."

Obedient, Steve lifts his head, lets Danny stick the pillow there before collapsing back against it. A bout of coughing shakes him once more, and he tries not to feel grateful when Danny shakes the blanket out over him. "Didn't answer the question," he manages when he catches his breath a little.

Danny cocks an eyebrow at him, rests the back of his hand briefly against Steve's forehead. Danny's hand feels dry and cold. "That wasn't exactly a question you posed," he says, before he vanishes back into the kitchen. "But since you asked so nice, let me just say that it didn't take a rocket scientist to work out that you were feeling under the weather yesterday."

"I was fine," Steve says.

"Please," Danny says, reappearing with a tray in his hands. "You were so pale you were practically green at the gills, and I haven't seen someone that clammy since I looked in the mirror the morning Gracie was born. You don't defy the governor's orders and show up to work this morning, like even she was expecting, you don't answer my calls. I'm a detective, don't insult me."

Steve tries to deny it, goes with, "It's just a little cold, Danny."

Danny just stares at him, and it only takes a few seconds before Steve's body betrays him with a rattling cough. "Well," Danny says wryly, "Now I'm convinced. Come on, sit up, soup's going to get cold."

"Soup?" Steve says.

"I'm glad to hear the bacteria haven't reached your ear canal. Sit! Okay, first, you need to take this cough syrup, it's an expectorant, good for what ails you in this particular instance—you keep pulling that face, wind'll change, you'll be stuck like that—I've got some tea brewing for later, but first you're going to have this soup." He deposits the tray in Steve's lap—a huge bowl of chicken noodle soup, some crackers on the side. "I warn you up front—this is made from my own secret recipe, so you're going to want to make this soup, but this is a secret I'd guard with my life." Danny pauses. "All right, so maybe it's a recipe I found online, but it's _someone's_ secret soup recipe, so I'd pretend to be very protective about it before I turned it over to you, okay?"

Steve's not quite sure why that makes him flush, feel too warm in a way that has little to do with the fever that he maybe, sort of, might be running. He settles for spooning up some of the soup instead. "'S'good," he says, a little surprised. Danny's not normally the kind of guy to do a lot of cooking; Steve had always figured that that was because he couldn't.

"Finally," Danny says, exasperation not able to win out against the affection in his voice. "Steve McGarrett displays the ability to recognise the completely obvious." Steve notices, not for the first time, how Danny's eyes crinkle up at the corners when he smiles.

Steve looks up at him—at this guy standing beside his couch on a Wednesday afternoon; this guy who's willing to spend his free time doing exactly what he does from nine to five, making sure that someone's got Steve's back. He's aware he's grinning like an idiot; ducks his head to contemplate his bowl of soup some more. Extra noodles, no carrots—Danny's been paying attention. "Maybe," he says, feeling his breath stutter against his ribs, "maybe I'm just getting better at saying it"—and for some reason, saying those words feels likes breaking through to the surface after a long time underwater, like the first breath after submersion.


End file.
